Hey, everyone. "Moriarty" here with some Rumblings From The Lab.

What I love most about AICN is the relationship we have with readers. What other job or lifestyle would guarantee that you get a steady stream of e-mails from film lovers from around the world, all writing in to tell you about these great things they’ve seen and their best experiences.

Today, there’s a really great piece that I was sent by “Mad Maximus,” and although it’s not really “news,” per se, it’s cool. It’s a rant of pure love for a great film. To me, this is the kind of writing that makes me happy when I find it in my inbox. Nice work, man, and I wish I’d been there...

Singing in the Rain: Digital Premiere

We were the hopeful, the dreamers, the desperate. Too late for invites or even normal admission, we were standbys for the Digital premiere of Singing in the Rain September 5, 2002, in Beverly Hills. Palms whipped over Wilshire Boulevard and rain spotted the sidewalk. The first drops in 135 days, someone in line said. Fitting. Maybe only the 50th anniversary of our greatest musical and the promised appearance of its still living stars could summon rain to our desert. They came and went, those drops, and no spirits were dampened. We figured we’d be the ones singing in the rain, the eighty or so still left in line when the last tickets were given away.

So why was I here? Why had I driven an hour merely to hope for entrance? It wasn’t the panel of stars or the first ever digital projection of this newly restored classic. It was something else -- echoes perhaps of 9/11.

Frank Pierson, President of the evening’s sponsor, The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, introduced the film and plunged us into its significance. He recalled 9/11, that day of heaviness, sadness, and exhaustion. He spoke of how he and his wife retired to their room that night and put in the laser disc of Singing in the Rain. It was more than escape, he said. It was restorative. A glimmer of hope. Michael Feinstein gave a brief welcome and then a movie I’ve never seen blitzed the screen. Oh, I’ve seen Singing in the Rain. Maybe twenty times. And most of those on DVD. But I’d never seen this movie before.

I’d never seen these colors. Whites popped everywhere. In the premiere scene, cop hats flashed, Donald O’Connor’s ascot shone, and Gene Kelly and Jean Hagen, as movie stars Don Lockwood and Lina Lamont, glowed like angels from hat to teeth to coats.

I’d never heard these lines. In 5.1 stereo, Lina Lamont’s entry, “For heaven’s sake…,” was a screeching punch and squeal-cut on glass. It was also a huge laugh. And then the best musical kiss-off ever when Debbie Reynolds as Kathy Selden drops Lockwood off at the party -- “Here we are, Sunset and Camden,” sung in her eighteen-year-old lilt. She had no training as a dancer or singer before that film, she said after the show. Getting cast in that film was just a lucky break.

And more colors. Yellow flowers on the cake at R.F. Simpson’s party. The pink of Reynolds’ lips, more vibrant than pale dress. Her teeth, whiter than any others. And the pie pitched into Lina’s face? I’ve never seen one so pink, delicious, and flaking.

For years, Gene Kelly has loomed gigantic above this production, nearly owned it in the public perception. And well he should. On first viewing, perhaps that’s all the eye can assimilate: his daring athleticism and visual extravagance as a performer. And it his mark as director with Stanley Donen that stamps the film. As Reynolds recalled after the screening, he was the teacher. Rita Moreno called him her idol. But repeat viewings confirm how the supporting roles carry this film. It just isn’t one of the greatest films of all time without them. Reynolds is towering. Witness her moment of vulnerability when Lockwood tells her at the party that she’s just about the prettiest Juliet he’s ever seen, fractions of a moment before she’s whisked into her dance number. She poises there, vulnerable and still, wanting to believe him, then she’s flash into movement. And what about Donald O’Connor? Has there ever been a dance routine like his famous ‘Make ‘Em Laugh’? As soon as he leaps off the piano. our screening ripples in applause. We know the virtuoso performance to come. It overwhelms us with energy and manic joy. And how about his face twisting? Jim Carrey’s got nothing on him. And the dance numbers with Kelly later where he keeps up and nearly bests him on every step? Then there’s the director played by Douglas Fowley and the diction coach.

I’ve never seen this Singing in the Rain. So large and in my face. So extreme. It’s not the safe, bland, tiny show I remember on home TV. It’s fast, witty, and supercharged with color. It has depth, scale, and texture in its design. And did I mention smart? Take the musical montage -- annoying and in the face. Spoofing the musical conventions of the day, it runs them together and gradually speeds them until they’re about to crush in and crash over each other before breaking out of it with the melodic ‘Beautiful Girl’ and there we are, into the swing, the blues and lavenders, and of course Debbie.

I’ve never seen such costumes. This film is like Broadway on Imax. In one scene towards the end when Lina threatens to sue R.F. Simpson, I found eyes wandering from her silk and feathers to his tweed. Talk about texture. You can feel the clothes in this film. Some of them itch.

And then my favorite scene as a boy. The one on the soundstage that shows you how to make a movie and seduce a woman. Great, great stuff. The lights, fog, and fan. He flips it on and the wind catches her dress like gossamer wings. But as beautiful as that is, there’s no lingering. They’re into the song. And there’s been nothing like it so far in the film. All elegance, grace and romance. Purple beauty. Lovers on a bare stage, light toes on planks, with wind, smoke and sunset all of their own making. Set in motion by their love. The empty, unused, darkened space is transformed. The film finds its soul in that scene.

When I was a kid, I was always surprised by the rain scene where Kelly takes to the puddles. Maybe I didn’t think it rained in Hollywood or that it was raining for them that night. In this version, there’s plenty of clues. You see the rain’s reflection on the floor and yellow hood of the stove. You see it streaming down the window. And when Cosmo suggests making Don’s flop into a musical, raindrops glint like diamonds behind them. Then ‘Good Morning’ flows over the screen and I taste melancholy -- there will never be another scene like this filmed again – ever.

And then into the rain Kelly steps with the familiar ‘Doo-de-doo-doo’ and my mind goes back to 9/11 – how close we are to it again, Pierson’s comments on the restorative power of this film. And you can feel it -- the rain of restoration. Like the original audience fifty years ago and countless since, we dare to hope in the downpour, even as we standbys did waiting to get in, and dance. That’s transformative grace – not silliness, not ignorance or naivete. It’s rain into dance, downpour into lift. It’s defiance of all that’s wet and gloomy and weighs us down. It’s play – a child splashing. It’s magic. We dance with him and know we’ve just seen maybe the greatest scene ever.

The digital prowess of this version leaps to the fore most brilliantly in the big ballet number ‘Broadway Melody.’ So sharp is the digital version, I could see guy wires holding neon signs and the swirls of paint on background props. It’s so extraordinarily bright, like an animated film played against a bank of floodlights. The dresses are electric, almost black lit, in the club scene. Then the green dress. Cyd Charisse. Red lips, black hair, and smoke. All lines and length bent into sinewy curve. Bewitching while polishing glasses on thigh and knocking hat with a glance. But the glitter of coin, diamond necklace, and sequins keeps her away. This movie blazes light. Later, her headpiece diamonds bleed a blue aura. I’ve never seen this film! And then I’m into that ballet with the twenty-five foot scarf. It’s beauty, almost incomprehensible, as he wraps her up. When do we ever see that on screen anymore? Not ballet or dance, but beauty that makes you hold your breath. And then neon fills the screen and Kelly emerges from shadow to light, hat askew – all seriousness and reflection. It could be the defining Gene Kelly shot – a moment, just a fraction of one, where you see the artist behind the performer, the man behind the actor, and the soul behind the smirk.